Crisis Of Faith
by Fallen Grace
Summary: "...and then we give in to whatever magnetic force has brought us back around again." CJ/Toby. Recollections, stress, alcohol, kissing. Strangeness ensues.


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Crisis Of Faith

Chapter One: Back Around Again

Disclaimer: If I owned them, I'd be much happier right now and so would they. 

Summary: Alcohol, kissing, a history of horny men, a disgrunted Jewish goldfish and CJ's reaction to Jed's little secret. This is post Bad Moon Rising. 

Spoilers: Pretty much anything and everything.

A/N: So, this isn't good. But it's as good as I can do. It's CJ/Toby. It's weird. You may like it – doubtful, but possible. This first part is fluff and CJ and was strangely fun to write. There's another author's note at the end explaining more. And off you go. :)

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Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift

But most of the time, it does

And it gets to a place where I'm begging for a lift

Or I'll drown in the wonders, and the was

...Cuz I'm tired of whys

Chokin' on whys

Just need a little because, because

- Fast As You Can, Fiona Apple

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In dealing with politics, I've learned some very interesting and useful things about human nature. I've met with a veritable grab bag of personalities, nationalities, and religions; I've learned more about post-traumatic psychological disorders than I ever really cared to; most importantly (at least for this business), I've learned how to handle people. And one of the first things you pick up around here is this: alcohol is your key to get things done. It's the undercurrent of Washington. Alcohol binds; it is a gesture of good faith and companionship. Alcohol comforts; it provides blissful release from our struggles at the end of the day. Alcohol is a dangerous, dangerous thing. So many politicians, some of the best, have been sucked into the excess, the escape, the edge. And everyone, according to his or her nature, is affected by it. Some are happy drunks, who just feel better after having had a glass or two; some are foolish drunks, who take great delight in doing things they'll regret later; some are melancholy drunks, who are usually only trying to forget. Toby is one of these. If you think you've he's bitter sober – you haven't seen anything yet. 

I remember once on the campaign – God, was it really three years ago? – after a particularly bad experience involving Josiah Bartlet and a room full of Texan Republican press, Toby and I went to a bar. I guess he didn't want to drink alone in a strange place, and neither did I; of all the people on the staff, we only felt comfortable with each other. So, in a small pub just outside of Galveston appropriately named Bubba's, we drowned our sorrows in vodka sours. 

God, I don't know how I can remember it all now; I reached new heights of intoxication that night. But I can still see his face – disheveled, nonchalant, sad-eyed as ever – watching me down my fifth shot.

"What?" I'd said, giggling. I myself become vivacious, impertinent and slightly flirtatious when under the influence. 

He shrugged and continued to study me carefully. The bar was nearly empty; only some scraggly construction worker types and a few desperate women remained scattered around. The lighting was very bad and so were the drinks, but we didn't give a damn so long as we ended up trashed. The atmosphere was stale, musty and oddly reassuring. 

"What are we doing here?" Toby's question was more to himself than to me, but I'd had one too many to realize this. 

"Here, where?" I asked stupidly. 

He gestured a hand around, distracted. "Here. This bar, this campaign. We can't honestly hope to have a chance in hell of winning."

"Toby –" I started, but he was already into his rant.

"We're far too outnumbered –" 

"Toby –"

"– our candidate is far too ignorant –"

"Toby –"

"– the staff is full of bumbling idiots –"

"Toby –" This was getting old. 

"– we're drastically underfunded –"

"Toby, he's not ignorant."

"He is." 

"He won a Nobel Prize!" We'd already had this discussion with Josh earlier in the day; both of them were weary with the whole thing and halfway considering resignation. I was helpless to change their minds.

"He is not educated in the ways of Washington, CJ! This man," he continued, both our drinks forgotten, "comes from New Hampshire. Yes, he was elected Senator, he was elected Governor, he did all those things. But do you know why?" 

"Because he's a good man who believes in what he does, and his constituents know it?" 

"Because of his bloodlines! He waved the credentials of one of the founding fathers in their faces and said, 'Look at me! I'm the original Josiah Bartlet's great-great-great-great-great grandson, and his blood runs through me. Look at all these wonderful things he did!' and they listened. He appealed to their visionary, rustic sense of New England values. It was a good strategy, but it will not work –" he banged his fist on the table "– for this country! Americans are smarter than that, they're more cynical and they're more jaded than that." 

He finished his tirade and drank deeply, almost daring me to follow up. 

"No, it will work." We were both very, very inebriated at this point. "It will work because at the heart of ever cynical, jaded American, including you, is someone who – who wants it to work. That," I paused, having lost my train of thought. Where did it go? Oh, right. "– is why this man is running, and that is why we're here, and that is why this man will win. Because we all want to believe in something."

Toby regarded me cautiously; my passionately slurred argument had disarmed him a little. "What makes you think that?"

"Because I know. I know you Toby." I poked his chest with an index finger to illustrate. "You're wasting breath fighting with yourself on this. You wouldn't have brought me here if you didn't believe in it." 

He sighed, shrugged, and silently admitted defeat. He never would surrender in words, and I knew it. 

"He's not a people person," he commented, abruptly shifting topics. 

"He keeps calling me Connie." 

"Connie?" repeated Toby mockingly. 

"Yes," I giggled. "Connie. I swear to God, when we get to the White House, he'd better get the names of the damn Supreme Court Justices right!" 

"It's gonna be one hell of a ride."

"Yes," I said, settling on Toby with one of my earnest looks, "it really will." 

We were silent for a moment, in thoughtful reverie. Toby exhaled loudly. I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting.

"Toby," I said, suddenly coming to a realization, "I'm very drunk."

He allowed himself a mischievous smirk. "Yes, Claudia Jean, you are."

"I'm gonna have one hell of a hangover and tomorrow we've got to go on all those Austin talk shows."

"Well, at least you're not the one going on TV."

"I have to prepare the governor to go on TV. That's almost as bad. Preparing him to do anything involving the press creates a migraine in and of itself." 

"You're good at it." This was a hard won compliment from Toby Ziegler, and it made me flush a little. 

"Well you have to write speeches with –"

Toby groaned. "Don't remind me. Absolutely do not remind me." 

"He seems like a nice kid," I shrugged. I did not know Sam well at that point.

"He is a nice kid, CJ. The operative word is kid. He insists that my writing needs – what was it? – 'imagery.'"

"Imagery?" 

"Yes, imagery," he spat. "My work does not need imagery."

"Yeah, 'cause you're so perfect."

"You got it."

"I know it well." 

We stopped and locked eyes, my blue on his brown, and suddenly my breathing was a little shallow. I guess it was just natural, human hormones – but they intensified the _moment_ by a thousand. 

"Toby," I said finally, though not quite breaking off the bizarre staring contest, "we should really go."

"Yeah," he agreed. Neither of us made a move. 

What I did next, well, I don't know why I did it. I don't like to wonder, either. I mean, I work with this man – I work for his respect every day. And there have been moments, strange, paranormal instants when something nags at the back of my mind – like there's some meaningful revelation on the tip of my brain, and if I'd ever concentrate on it, I'd figure it out. But I don't want to and I don't have time to and it's probably... probably nothing. But anyway, what happened next is almost painful for me to recollect.

Simultaneously, we inched closer, until we were sharing a breath. He muttered, "Oh, hell," which was exactly what I was thinking. And I kissed him. Or maybe he kissed me. But it was a kiss, that's for damn sure. 

The strange thing is that it didn't feel like a first kiss at all. It was entirely too long to be a first kiss. It was entirely too familiar. It was entirely too... real. 

Yet another reason why I don't think about this often. 

We broke apart eventually, and I remember the look he gave me. It was eloquent. He was saying to me in that look, "God DAMNIT CJ, as much as I want to do this, I can't. We can't. It's only been 7 months since the divorce, I can't do that to Andi and I wouldn't do that to you. And there's the campaign. We can't do this. But god, I would love to." 

Well, okay maybe it didn't say quite that much. But he was looking at me as if I was his last hope of salvation and he was chained to a wall on the other side of the room for all eternity. Women kill for looks like that. No man has ever looked at me that way and I'm fairly certain no man ever will again. If someday I met one that did, I swear I'd marry him on the spot. 

I was the one who broke the silence. "Toby, let's go back." There was no need to say anything more, and no need to explain – because even after we'd just shared that incredible kiss, we were still CJ and Toby. And we had – still have – a kind of unspoken consonance. 

My memories of the next day are vague at best. I remember we took the president on every one of the talk shows, all six, and he only messed up on one. I remember being unable to look at Toby but periodically feeling his eyes on me. I know Toby talked to Josh, and they didn't mention resignation anymore. I know Leo recognized something had happened, but he didn't comment. We all moved on, and here we are now. 

I did the right thing then, of course. I stopped it. It was a moment of weakness, it was damn wrong. I'm a smart, beautiful woman and now I have a great job. I could never have abandoned all my principles and reasons just to go chasing after a hopeless relationship with Toby. Never, not in a thousand years. And it was only a kiss, after all. There's no use torturing myself with useless what-if's. Or whys. 

Besides, I wouldn't know what to do with another chance if you gave it to me. 

God damn it. Do you see why I don't like to think about this? 

- - - - - - - - - 

I've been in my office about fifteen minutes when I hear him come up. I know it's him, due to supernatural female intuition and the fact that his footsteps have become oddly familiar to me somehow. I know he's probably been spying me since I got back, careful to give me a little distance, a little time to rationalize it. And yet there's nothing to rationalize here. It's a disease. The president had it. He said he didn't. And so there was a lie, and that's that. 

"CJ?" He hovers uncertainly in the doorway, waiting for some sign of a reaction. I give him nothing back, answering his question with a question. 

"Who else knows?" My voice sounds hoarse, inhuman. I refuse to look up and let him see my red eyes. 

He steps in, shuts the door behind him. "You are the nineteenth person." 

"Well, that's something. Top twenty."

"Yes." 

When it becomes clear I'm not going to say anything else, he sits down. "CJ, I –"

"Don't." I finally level my gaze with his, and he doesn't flinch. "Just – just don't. There aren't words that make this better." 

"I know."

"Then why did you try?"

"Because I am a male."

I chuckle softly. It's forced and does nothing to break the strain of the room. 

"What's going to happen?" I ask him, sounding strangely like a small child. 

"I don't know. Did you get to talk to the president?"

"No. Leo told me. And he asked me, he asked me if there was anything I wanted to know or say... to the president. I couldn't think of a damn thing." 

"You were in shock." Well _duh_. 

"We're politicians. We lie all the time. It's just what we do. 'We live an eternity of false smiles' – I think I read that somewhere. It's true."

He nods, without the slightest clue what I'm talking about. I wish I knew. 

"We lie and we still do good work, and I still sleep at night for all of my lies. But I just can't believe this. This is infamous."

"Yes."

"Toby, take me to a bar."

"What?"

"You heard me. I wanna get drunk off my ass tonight."

God bless him, he goes to get my coat. 

- - - - - - - - - 

Three hours and four House Specials later, things are starting to blur around the edges. Toby and I are having the most interesting discussion – well to be more correct, I'm incoherently rambling about something obscure and irrelevant, and Toby is allowing it with a concerned expression. He's kind of cute when he's trying to be sympathetic. It's too bad he isn't like this more often. 

The bar is small, isolated, sort of tacky – not at all the kind of place a stray reporter would stumble into at 2:13 AM. 

"Ya know what the problem with men is, Toby?" I have had an epiphany. I think I may be talking louder than I mean to. Toby shakes his head slightly, allowing me to continue. "You're all so damn horny." 

His eyes bug slightly out of his head and I can't help but laugh at him. He looks like a disgruntled Jewish goldfish. You see, I bought a book about goldfish awhile ago – so as to avoid inadvertently killing Gail – and they had a picture of this bizarre, coal-black species sporting huge eyes on top of their heads. They looked pretty freaked out, and so does Toby. Somehow, I can't stop laughing. This is insane. My world has crumbled, the administration for which I have willingly given my heart and soul is about to fall down in history as something cheap and immoral, the president of the United States has a debilitating disease and lied about it to EVERYONE, I may well have been party to a conspiracy, Toby is peering at me as though I have finally cracked, and I just can't stop laughing. 

"CJ? CJ, uh, I think it might be time to take you home now." I can't help it; I'm laughing harder. Tears are streaming down my face. 

He gently puts a hand on my arm as though to help me up, but I shrug him off. "No, no, seriously Toby," I argue, gasping for air between giggles, "your downfall is your hormones. I mean, look at Einstein." 

He does not comprehend. "Einstein?" 

"Yeah. He seduced this poor young woman, and had an illegitimate child. Of course, then after he'd already ruined her, he tried to earn a living for his little family. Only guess what? He'd been so busy screwin' around, he'd gotten kicked out of school. And everyone knew it. So he couldn't get a job. Man was smart as hell, he could see things like a whole society of people couldn't and there's certainly something you can say for that – but in the end he destroyed the mother of his child and his own daughter."

"I didn't know that," he says, mildly surprised.

"I'll just bet you didn't," I continue, pressing on my advantage. "And you know why Hitler died?"

"No," he answers wisely. 

"Stiff – siff – " I'm having trouble getting out the word. "Syphilis. He might still be around if he hadn't been a sex freak." 

"Well then thank God he was one."

"Amen." Who cares if I'm Catholic and he's Jewish? I try to clink glasses with him, but I sort of miss my aim and end up spilling half my drink on his shirt. 

"Oooh god Toby, I'm sorry." 

"It's okay," he mumbles, attempting to sop up the liquid from his front. The stain is stubbornly refusing to come out. His tie is actually one of the few very nice ones he owns – burgandy, silk – and I suspect it was a Christmas present from Andrea. Ohhh, no. 

"Here, let me." I take the napkin from him and try, with little more success, to clean him up. This is when I realize he's looking at me strangely. I back off.

"No, it's okay," he says, his tone not at all irritated, as it usually is. "Really. I didn't like it anyway." To demonstrate, he removes his tie. Oh... lord. Toby Ziegler just removed his tie. Whoa. "But it really is time for you to get home now." 

"Toby?" I ask him, purposefully not addressing the issue. I've just thought of something. "Jed Bartlet, his downfall isn't his hormones."

"No. It isn't." 

"What is it?"

"He's a good man who made a mistake, CJ." 

"A mistake?" I'm sort laughing again, but this time there's nothing warm or friendly about it. "A one night stand is a mistake, leaving the curling iron on is a mistake. But this wasn't a mistake, this was a felony." 

"Uh, may want to keep your voice down."

I ignore him. "I mean, this right here? This is a mistake. I'm here with you right now and tomorrow I'll have a colossal hangover and be snippy to everyone, and ugh, I have to go see Oliver Babbish at five in the morning, therefore I'm not going to get any sleep tonight and that would be a mistake when you're helping run the country. But what he did? That's, that's not a mistake. That's – it's –" I can't even find the words, but then the speech writer pipes up. 

"Betrayal." 

"Betrayal of the American people." Toby's not worried about my volume now; my voice has lowered to an almost-whisper. "How did he do it? How could he look them, look us in the eye and just –"

"Stop it, CJ." His tone is harsher now. 

"Bullshit, Toby! It's all bullshit and you damn well know it."

"He didn't –"

"Are you saying he didn't lie?" 

"He lied."

"He's going to – do you know what MS does?" Well of course he does, stupid question. But Toby doesn't call me on it. 

"Yes." 

"It's just – his mind, Toby. I can't – his _mind_."

"I know." 

I look around then, at the crummy building with only about three people in it. We're sitting in a darkened corner and no one has taken much notice of us. And then I turn to Toby, I look him in the eye and smile.

"God help me. This – it doesn't matter whether I think he was wrong or not, I will always be working for this man as long as he can see straight."

"I know."

"Why is it?"

He almost smiles back at me then; it's as close to a grin as you get with Toby. "Because we all want to believe in something."

"And he's it."

"Yes."

It starts exactly as it did three years ago; we're leaning closer, abandoning any pretense, and then we give in to whatever magnetic force has brought us back around again. 

It's one hell of a kiss. 

- - - - - - - - - 

And so ends part one, otherwise known as The Part Where CJ Gets Drunk. That was strange, wasn't it folks? Yup. I'm probably going to keep writing this even if you hate it... which you probably will... so stay tuned for part two. (This ending here is known as The Part Where Grace Tries To Make People Care.) Are CJ and Toby gonna keep kissing in that crummy bar? Are they gonna do more than that? Just how drunk *is* CJ? Are all men really horny? And what's going on in Toby's head? All of these and more shall be answered dutifully, next time. 

Well thanks for reading, everyone, have a nice day, and reviews are great things_. _


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